Zugzwang
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: You know what you have to do; you know exactly what the game requires of you. It surrounds you, the cold, and you feel completely numb. You walk up to the ledge and one more step, you're up, and another, you're gone. The great Sherlock Holmes, nothing more than a body in a morgue and memory in the minds of those who lost faith and those who kept it.


**A spontaneous idea. If you want an improvement in your mood, just stop here. Seriously. There are a couple chess references here, but nothing too major or which isn't explained. This is an experiment in writing from second person, and I hope that you like this.**

**[Insert Disclaimer] Enjoy.**

* * *

There is a moment in almost every chess game when you realize that the move you are about to make will cost you. It will ruin the game for you, but you have to make it, because otherwise you can only concede, and the game is worth nothing sans risk.

This moment of realization is called the zugzwang.

You play the game for the game's own sake.

* * *

It's cold here. The wind blows all around and through everything, it seems. You are startled, breathing heavily, running over in your mind what had just happened; you heard the shot and saw him fall. You both shall meet in hell after all, it seems, and you do not intend to disappoint.

London is beautiful. The city is ever-changing; at times you saw it as the sewer of mankind, and sometimes it seems like the finest of wines, with thin innuendos at tastes and feelings, and you love it. You love the sounds of people, of their lives, and it's all similar to one large beehive in its busyness and complexity.

You know what you have to do. You know exactly what the game requires of you, and this is your zugzwang. It surrounds you, the cold, and you feel completely numb. You walk up to the ledge and one more step, you're up. If you take another, you're gone. The great Sherlock Holmes, nothing more than a body in a morgue and memory in the minds of those who lost faith and those who kept it, you think, smirking in your mind. Every breath feels like shards of glass and you don't know if this is psychosomatic or related to the temperature; you couldn't care less either.

You know what you have to do. You don't stop looking down at the street below as you take out your mobile; the cars are just whizzing by and the people resemble ants. And then you see your friend down there, also one of them. You can imagine his face right now, even though you don't want to. You dial and the figure below moves; you need a moment to contain yourself, to make it so that your voice doesn't tremble as much as it seems it will right now.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" The doctor.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," you say. God, you hate yourself for doing this.

"No, I'm coming in." The soldier.

"Just do as I ask. Please." The knights are gone. There is still hope.

"Where?"

"Stop there," you say. The pawns are going. The chances are dwindling.

"Sherlock." He sounds worried and has a bit of sadness and panic in his voice. Don't panic, you think.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." You don't have to imagine his face anymore.

"Oh god…" Shock, anger, fear all surface in his eyes.

"I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this." You know you won't be coming down, though technically you can.

"What's going on?" Anger.

"An apology. It's all true." You've never liked lying, only doing so when necessary. Now it is necessary.

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." The rooks are at a positional and numerical disadvantage. Think!

"Why are you saying this?" He believed, he still does. He keeps the faith.

"I'm a fake." But I'm not! your mind screams.

"Sherlock-" No, no, no cut him off. This is hard enough as it is.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." The game is almost done.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met- the first time we met- you knew all about my sister, right?" The doubt that was in the very darkest corner of his mind begins surfacing. Good, it'll make it easier (on him, not on you).

"Nobody could be that clever." Oh yes they could, trust me.

"You could." Wait, there never was any doubt, you think. He never doubted. And he never will, he'll keep believing. This will break him to an unprecedented degree, you realize.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick; it's just a magic trick." Tense change. Will he notice? Likely not, but you keep hoping.

"No, alright, stop it now." The soldier. He tries running to save you. He doesn't know that he already has. Now it's just your turn to save him. You extend your hands almost to stop him, or is it to reach out and see that you're both still here for one last time?

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"Alright."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" You know that he would do anything for you. He said that friends protect people, he will someday understand that you are just protecting him.

"Do what?" God, he's so worried.

"This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" Stupid, stupid, imbecilic questions! Of course that's what they do. You can do this; your heart is beating faster and the numbness of your face prevents you from feeling the tears. They're real. You're as frail as anybody else.

"Leave a note when?" The friend. He is panicking, scared, and you are willing to bet anything that had it been anyone but you, he'd run up to the roof, but he listens to you.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't-" You throw the phone away, still looking down. You can feel him yell your name in desperation in your bones.

You know what you have to do. You stand with the buzz of the city around you and the feeling of fear in your chest. You have almost forgotten what it feels like. The queen has been captured, and the downfall of the king is here. There is not a lot of time, and you cannot torture him for much longer.

You let your arms out and take that last step. This feels glorious, just like flying, but this time, you know where you'll land.

You know what you just did.

* * *

"Checkmate," whispers the man on the roof.

"Not yet," you say to yourself, a heavy feeling of something on your chest and a cigarette in your mouth, slowly burning up. A tear makes its way down your face. You feel it this time.

* * *

**This is it. I hope that you liked my story, and any tips and/or thoughts are highly appreciated. I'd like it if you let me know if you have any criticisms and if you had any interesting thoughts about this. Have a good day.**

**Until next time.**


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